The Light in Her Eyes
by tartan-angel
Summary: Haymitch and Plutarch barely got her out alive, but that was the least of her troubles. Effie Trinket was held captive during the events of Mockingjay,but what actually happened?Rated M for references to torture and implied sexual abuse. Eventual Hayffie
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Well, here's my first THG fic. I don't own any of the recognisable characters or settings etc., they belong to the wonderful Suzanne Collins.**_

* * *

For Effie Trinket, make-up used to be a simple statement: _look at me. I can be beautiful too. _That was until the rebellion. It became, after that, her lifeline, the only way to disguise the scars that the Capitol had left behind.

She carried on as normal, as though she had remained untouched by the terrors of the interrogation rooms, as though she were the same. She kept rigidly to her schedules, said all the right things, smiled whenever she thought somebody was looking her way. They would not have the satisfaction of knowing that they had damaged her.

But she could not hide everything. She could not bring the light back into her eyes.

* * *

It was dark. That was the first thought that crossed Effie's mind after she awoke. Cold was the second. Then the panic that always accompanied the unknown began to set in. The goosebumps rose on the pale surface of her skin as she twisted to one side and was rewarded only by a shooting pain through her right leg. Her stomach dropped when she found the rough metal shackle clamped around her bare ankle. Her panic deepened but her breathing became shallower.

As the awareness crept slowly back through her body, Effie managed to make a swift mental assessment of the damage done, just as she did after every mishap in the run-up to the Games. She was still wearing the clothes she had on the last evening she remembered: the white vest she wore under her dresses, the torn white underskirt. She had injured her leg, possibly even broken it. But the worst pain, the most overwhelming, was the dull thudding in her head. It probably arose from her crashing against the table in her apartment back in the Capitol.

* * *

The kitchen was filled with the high, light sounds of the latest pop tune as Effie flitted about, humming while she prepared her dinner. The smell of warm pheasant was not enough to cure her of the waning appetite she had had since the shock ending of the Quarter Quell. After a while, she found that she had stopped whistling and started concentrating on her long fingers as they danced across the glossy surface of the polished mahogany.

Something was wrong. Not just with the Games, which she had long ago begun to despise, but with her. Effie had become accustomed to the days when she was not required to work, when there was nobody else around, but she usually spent the duration of the Games in the apartments with the tributes and mentors. This year had been different, though. Haymitch had sent her home. He told her that he could deal with the sponsors himself. He had been revitalised by the training and lack of alcohol, he said. She should have known something was happening right then, but she was too glad to be getting away from that place to worry about it. The more distance she put between herself and those two children, she reasoned, the less difficult it would be to deal with the thought of losing them both in the arena.

People seldom seemed to realise how much damage the Games had to _her. _With Haymitch, it was obvious. The stench of alcohol on his clothes was enough for everybody to know. But Effie was not as open about her flaws as Haymitch. She had learned long ago to disguise her tears, having been conditioned to aspire to perfection and to be positive in the face of adversity. There had been that slip at the dinner table, of course, when Katniss had mentioned Seneca and Effie couldn't contain the tears as she always had. Seneca had been her best friend, her first ever friend, in fact. There is no disguising the kind of anguish that comes with the loss of a friend.

But other than that, Effie Trinket was a wall of positivity. When she was in company, anyway.

She pushed herself up from her chair and moved towards her bedroom, leaving the bird to go cold on the table. The mirror reflected her fears; her walls were falling down again. She unzipped the dress that was now uncomfortably hot and took a seat at the old dressing table, littered with all kinds of differently-shaped bottles and pots. The make-up brush was in her hand before she knew it. If she was going to face today, she would have to have her best face on.

That was when her television flashed on of its own accord.

* * *

Effie was pulled out of her reverie by a clicking at the door. A moment later, a man clad in a rough grey jumpsuit stepped through the door and secured it swiftly behind himself, blocking out the momentary glimpse of light that had come from it. He was not a peacekeeper. He was worse.

He was an interrogator.

Electric lights flickered on with a faint buzz. It was painful to her eyes but Effie could not help looking into its enticing glow. The first light she had seen since she had been here. Now she was getting an idea of where 'here' was.

The walls were a depressing shade of grey like the interrogator's uniform, so far removed from the bright colours of her home. A small metal table was set up in the centre of the room, but other than that, there was nothing else in the room. Unless you count the grate beneath Effie's feet. She immediately knew what it was for and her mouth went dry. She would not be leaving any time soon. The scraping of metal on the slick tiled floor as the interrogator pulled out a chair set off a ringing in Effie's ears that remained for quite some time. He was not speaking. He was waiting for her to join him.

Precariously, Effie rose to her feet, almost toppling over when she put pressure onto her damaged leg. An involuntary wince crossed her face and she dug her nails sharply into her palms. It took a few minutes before she collected herself and finally reached the other chair. A pang of unrest rose from her gut as she realised that the chain around her ankle would allow her to go no further.

"Tell me why you think you're here, Miss Trinket." There was something in his voice, an inflection that showed he was not originally a Capitol citizen. An inflection that she knew.

* * *

Originally, when a victor of the Hunger Games emerged, they were offered the chance to take up residence in the Capitol and leave their old District behind, opening their minds to a whole different world. That, of course, was before the concern over the Capitol's thoroughbred arose. The Government became concerned that mannerisms from less civilised Districts were slipping through into their home and that their children would be catching on to them. Children are extremely perceptive, after all. Effie was too young at the time to remember exactly why the concern came up in the first place, but, from what she had discovered since, it seemed that some the families of some of the victors held strong opinions against the Capitol and their children, overhearing them, had begun to repeat them unwittingly in the schoolyards.

One victor from District Five, Anastasia Chaisty, moved into the Capitol with her younger brother and parents when Effie was seven years old. The youngest member of the Chaisty family, Salvio, soon became fast friends with little Effie after attending school with her. They could frequently be seen playing in the garden of the big new house that Salvio's family had moved into and grew increasingly fond of each other, which, to the utter bemusement of Effie, appeared to annoy young Seneca.

It was hot during the summer of Effie's sixteenth birthday. Unbearably so. Women had even refrained from wearing their usual amounts of makeup for fear of the humiliation that would surely follow the streaks of brightly coloured sweat as it worked away at the various powders and lotions. A light melody played loudly from a speaker connected to one wall as Effie opened the last of the boxes in her new apartment. _Her _new apartment. The sound of it was delicious on her tongue. This was hers and nobody could take it away.

She had been desperate to get away from her family for some time now. Oh, she adored them in every way, but teenagers often have the need to escape and have their own space away from it all. This, she supposed, was her own little form of rebellion. A rush of giddy excitement entered her bloodstream, her first taste of true independence.

There was a knock on the door and Effie clicked a button on the wall, causing the music chip to cut out abruptly. She opened the door to reveal the faces of some of her closest friends as well as some that she was not so well acquainted with.

"Happy birthday!" they chorused chirpily.

"What's all this?" she asked.

"Call it a welcoming party," Seneca cried from somewhere near the back of the group. Effie couldn't see his face in the bunch.

"Are you not going to invite us in, Effie?" Salvio asked in a mock offended tone. "Where are your manners?"

With a chuckle, Effie moved back, opening the door wider to the flood of incoming visitors.

"Well, you got this place sorted quickly," said Salvio, appraising the living room from its centre. His accent still amused her; he tried so hard to fit in with the Capitol, bless him. He needn't have tried, in her opinion.

"It's a big day. I thought if I could get all of this out of the way I'd have more time to have fun."

"Good for you, Eff." Seneca had already taken a seat on the red armchair by the window, currently one of the only two chairs Effie owned. "Very sensible." There was something in his voice that she could not place. It was almost as if he disapproved of her.

Effie did not have long to dwell on this, however, as someone had thrown a new music chip into the player so that the speaker was now emitting a heavy pounding noise. Fulvia, a girl from Effie's old neighbourhood, thrust a bottle into her hand and told her to drink it. Effie was dubious, but took little sips of the liquor and relished in the fire that followed the liquid down her throat.

"Come on," Salvio said, grabbing her hand. "Let's dance."

Effie could have sworn she heard Seneca swear under his breath. Undeterred by his sudden sullenness, Effie joined Salvio in the middle of the room, which had helpfully been cleared by some of the others, who were now moving in a strange way along to the beat of the music. This was not the sort of dancing that Effie was accustomed to and the sight of it made her want to giggle.

Salvio seemed to have noticed her perplexed look as he asked, "You know how to dance, don't you?"

"Not this kind of dancing."

"It's easy," he said lightly. "Here, let me show you." He laid a hand on her waist and must have ignored the obvious shiver that ran down her spine for, the next moment, he was moving her hips from side to side, in time with his own.

"See? It's simple. Want to try on your own?"

"Don't patronise me, Sal," Effie said flatly.

"Alright, I'm sorry."

Effie smiled and continued the movements he had shown her without the guide of his hands. She even surprised herself when she found that she was moving closer towards him. Her voice was somewhat deeper than usual as she asked:

"Does this live up to your standards?"

"I don't know," Salvio replied, returning his hands to her waist. "It could do with something else."

And before she knew it, their lips were meeting in a warm, soft kiss that she was reluctant to end. When space opened up between them once more, Effie's thoughts were disorganised in her mind. All she knew was that she was grinning in the most childish way and he was grinning back at her.

Later that night, Effie found Seneca sitting on the floor of the little balcony by the kitchen. She took a seat next to him and offered him a cold bottle of the same liquor that Fulvia had thrust upon her earlier that evening. He ignored the gesture.

"Sen, what's going on?"

"Nothing, Effie."

"Well, clearly that's not the case, is it? You've been sulking all night! It's supposed to be a party; lighten up a little."

"I haven't been sulking," but his tone only reinforced her argument and raised a smile on her face. The irony, however, could not elicit a smile from Seneca. "I'll see you later, Effie."

"Sen! Don't -" The slamming of the door cut her off.

"What's the matter with him?" Effie turned to find Salvio standing just behind her.

"I don't know," she replied as he sat down in the same spot Seneca had only vacated moments earlier. Concern tugged at her stomach.

"Well, he's a big boy. I'm sure he can handle himself."

"Yes," Effie replied vaguely.

"Hey, did you know they've started building Victor Villages in the Districts now? That means no more immigrants from outside. Your mother will be happy."

Effie's brow furrowed into a frown at the news. She was really rather fond of meeting people from outside of the Capitol – they had the most interesting stories!

"That's a shame."

"Yeah." A comfortable silence hung between the pair for quite some time before Salvio spoke again. "Hey, Effie?"

"Still here, Sal," Effie joked.

"I know." And he leaned in close to her again, the sweet scent of honey emanating from his skin. The kiss was soft like the last, but it burned Effie's lips and sparked something inside her that made her fingers tangle in his hair and let out a soft moan as his hands settled on her waist for the third time that evening. Salvio's tongue brushed gently across her bottom lip and, without thinking, Effie opened her mouth to him. Her hands tangled more frantically in his hair. He held her impossibly close now.

The crashing broke them apart.

The impact of the wooden front door striking the tiled kitchen floor reverberated around the apartment. Salvio leapt up like the old dogs the Peacekeepers used to take around with them, to investigate the source of the noise.

He got halfway into the kitchen before Effie saw him tackled to the ground by two peacekeepers in their starched white uniforms.

"Effie, what's going on?" Salvio's eyes looked pleadingly up at her from the floor.

"Stop it. Stop it, please," Effie screamed, trying to push the men away from her friend. "He's done nothing wrong."

Evidently, the peacekeepers disagreed. The biggest one shoved Effie backwards. She lost her balance and toppled to the floor. The last she saw of them was the grim expression of the man who had pushed her as Salvio was carried out of the building, away from her.

How many times would they need to wash their uniforms before they could remove the stain of the boy's blood?

For several minutes, Effie sat, unable to think properly, sobbing into her hands. She eventually managed to stumble towards the telephone and dial the only number she knew off by heart.

"Sen? Sen!" she was shouting down the receiver the second the ringing tone stopped.

"Effie, what's going on?" he asked worriedly. They were the same words Salvio had used.

"They took him."

"Who?"

"The peacekeepers!" Then she realised that that was not the 'who' that Seneca had meant. "They took Salvio."

"Effie…" his voice cracked. Her head started to reel.

"Did you already know about this?" Her question was met with silence. "DID YOU?"

"He was heard bad-mouthing the Capitol in public. I'm sorry." _Sorry? _They had just dragged her friend from her house with his blood all over them and all Sen could say was 'sorry'?

"How? How did you know?" Her voice was dangerously low, verging on a growl. She already knew the answer.

"My father –"

"You knew and you didn't tell me? How could you, Sen?"

"I thought it would be best if you didn't know."

"You thought it would be _best_? How is it best for me not to know that they were dragging one of my friends off to God-knows-where? In what twisted world is that the right option?"

"Well, I didn't know you were going to be kissing him, did I?" There. He had said it. It was rage that he was holding onto. Or was it something more?

Effie slammed down the receiver and felt her body sink to the floor, heavy as a rock in the ocean.

* * *

"I don't know anything about a network break down; I've been in here, remember?"

Incensed by her spiteful tone, the interrogator sprung across the table, grabbed her arm and put his face so close to hers that she could taste the wine on his breath. It was expensive, Capitol-grade liquor, not the cheap stuff that she had occasionally wrenched from Haymitch's hands during the Games. What she wouldn't give for some of that right now. He was still snarling at her, perspiration beginning to fall in periodic drips from the tip of his nose. They don't expect a citizen of the Capitol to be so non-compliant. Capitol citizens were raised with manners and respect for their superiors. They did not defy them.

"Who organised the network take-over?" Every word was punctuated with the interrogator's heavy breathing, his lips coated in spit.

The disgusting metallic tang of blood seeped into Effie's mouth and she realised that she had been biting hard on her bottom lip to take her mind away from the searing pain caused by the interrogator's grip on her bruised arm.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she spat with as much power as she could muster in her parched vocal chords. The grip around her arm tightened and she could feel every throb of the blood pulsing through her body.

"You've spent two years in league with rebel leaders and you're trying to tell me that you know nothing? You must think us stupid, Miss Trinket." _In league with rebel leaders_? Well, it couldn't be Katniss; she seemed to despise Effie and everybody knew it. Peeta, he was a sweet boy, but not a rebel. As for Haymitch, well, that was something else altogether.

"Teamwork was never one of my strong points, Salvio."

Something flickered behind his eyes and she knew that she was correct. They killed him, hadn't made him an Avox – but this was worse than any physical mutilation. They had warped him into some new, bloodthirsty, hateful creature and he had her scent.

"Neither was honesty, as I remember it."

The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, the door opened once more and Salvio was escorted from the room. Effie was left in an abrupt silence. It was some while before she realised that she was breathing heavily and her senses began to resume their normal work. Salvio had said the wrong thing, perhaps for the last time in his life. But what had they told him to make him hate her so much? That it was her fault? That she called in the peacekeepers? Why would he believe it? But these people could make you believe anything. They had made the entire Capitol believe that the Hunger Games was entertainment. They had even managed to cover up the chaos that had happened in the Districts for a while.

* * *

The television flickered on of its own accord. Effie caught its reflection in the mirror and immediately recognised the flash of blue hair that must have been Caesar Flickerman. She bolted towards the screen, looking for any sign at all of the others. Katniss, Peeta, Cinna, Haymitch. Even his drunken face would be good to see.

Her hope was rewarded with a close-up on Peeta's face. It was just as it had been on his last evening in the arena. Effie released the breath she had been unconsciously holding. Peeta was safe. But he was calling a ceasefire. That could only mean that the rumours were true. The whole of Panem was rebelling against the Capitol, those who had nurtured them for so long.

But had they really done any good? Effie remembered the shock she had felt walking into District 12 for the first time. The stench of poverty lingered in the air at every turn. There was no escape. That was the moment, she supposed, that she had first doubted the Capitol and its precious ideals but she never voiced – much less acted on – them.

As she looked at Peeta's frowning face, Effie choked back a cry. Then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I apologise for the wait between chapters, but I've been rather busy. I appreciate all of you who have been reading, favouriting, alerting and reviewing. Reviews make me unutterably happy ;)._

* * *

She did not know for how long she was unconscious. All she was aware of was waking up in this room. After the incident with Salvio, they had been sending interrogators in quite regularly, perhaps in an attempt to scare information out of her that she did not have. That was the only reason they were keeping her alive; because they thought she had something they wanted. Information. But she knew nothing about the rebellion. _She hadn't even known it had properly started, for God's sake! _ She did know, however, that the only way to stay alive was to make them think that she did. Effie Trinket was not unintelligent, but intelligence was deemed unnecessary, unpleasant even, in the Capitol. Who needed intelligence when you could be beautiful?

After a few days – Effie was unsure of exactly how many – they stopped coming to her cell. She hoped they had forgotten about her, but she now knew that hope was just an illusion**. **_**One victor would emerge as a symbol of hope**_**.** The story she had been told about the Games as a child now seemed like an elaborate lie, more false than the fairy tales and stories of monsters hiding in the cupboards.

* * *

The advertisements were everywhere. All over the television, on posters that had detached themselves from the wall on favour of being crumpled by the heels of some high-class Capitol lady, on the lips of every respectable citizen in the Capitol. They were looking for a new escort to work with the tributes from District Twelve.

Granted, Twelve was not the most reputable of the Districts of Panem, but Effie was still determined to get that job. _Imagine the exposure_! Being broadcast to the whole of Panem for everyone to see. Her designs would be everywhere, people would be begging for them. Effie smiled at the thought and gripped her leather-bound sketchbook a little closer. She had been making and wearing her own clothes since she started working with _Susanna's Sweet Styles_ as a designer's assistant. The designs they created would be sent to Eight for manufacture and then shipped right back into the Capitol to be sold to fashion's elite. Of course, for a while, she had not been allowed to as much as breathe upon any of the designs, but when Marco, the designer she mainly just made tea for, had begun to trust her, he would talk over his latest inspirations with her and Effie was even permitted to interject her own opinions if she felt the need.

A warm sense of giddiness ran through her when she thought of the bitter winter day in which she had been sent to prepare orange tea for a meeting of designers that was happening in the studio. She walked back in, tray of tea and snacks balancing precariously on her arms, to find Marco reclining back in his chair with her sketchbook in hand. If Effie had been a few steps further back from the table, she probably would have dropped the tray to the floor with the shock of it.

There was a long moment of silence that cut right through Effie's chest. Was it possible to die of fright or anxiety? She was sure she'd heard the term before. Maybe that was what was happening to her.

"Is this the one you were wearing last Thursday?" Marco asked finally, indicating a dark green dress with gold accents.

"Yes," Effie answered sheepishly as the bright pink flush spread across her cheeks. She had the horrible feeling that it would burn its way through the light foundation on her face.

"You make your own clothes?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to sit in on this meeting?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever stop saying 'yes'?"

"Yes," then, realising what she had said, Effie panicked and added, "I mean… damn it."

Yes, she thought, the Games would be the perfect opportunity for her.

This view did not last long.

* * *

The sun was shining brightly that day for twenty-year-old Effie Trinket, just the way it always did. But today was particularly sunny, which heightened her usually positive mood even further. Her first job away from home started today. Her first job away from home. It sounded good in her mind, adventurous, _dangerous _even. Of course, coming from the Capitol, danger was not a concept Effie was very familiar with. Why should it be? There was no place in Panem safer than the Capitol. But the prospect of something new and unknown to her was far too inviting.

Her eyes flitted over the image reflected in the mirror and she rewarded herself with a tiny satisfied smile. She had truly outdone herself. Her light hair was tucked neatly away under a fiery red wig, the most popular colour in the Capitol at the time, which fell to just below her collarbone. Her pale skin was made even paler by the white body paint she had been encouraged to use since she had begun her work at _Susanna's_, but the real impact came in her make-up. Her lips and eyelids were painted a deep red colour to match her wig, and were flecked with golden sparkles.

Effie Trinket was out to make an impression.

District Twelve may not be the cleanest or best-looking district, but she would certainly be the best escort they had ever had. Thankfully, her stay in the dust-coated District Twelve would be brief and, besides, there was another week before that happened. She had been lucky, she reasoned, even to get Twelve; the Capitol rarely chose somebody as young as her, even just to act as escort to the tributes.

The tributes. There was something new. Effie had watched the Games every year for as long as she could remember, had re-enacted the most dramatic scenes with her friends when she was younger, had wished that she could have had the chance to volunteer, but she had never actually _met _a tribute, let alone a victor. That would end today.

The train pulled into the station and Effie was immediately struck by how different from her home this district really was. The platform was devoid of the marble columns and gilded statues of the Capitol. A shabby form staggered towards her. She could smell the alcohol on him before he came to a halt, teetering precariously before her. When it seemed that he would not start a conversation of his own accord, Effie started one for him.

"The train was running a few minutes late, I apologise. I'm Effie Trinket." He did not appear to have understood, she added, "the new escort for District Twelve. From the Capitol."

He eyed her with a mixture of expressions, the most prominent of which being disgust.

"You don't say," he replied sarcastically.

"Mind your manners." Effie repeated the words her father had told her before she boarded the train to District Twelve. The man looked affronted. "I take it you are Haymitch Abernathy?"

"You take it right."

Ignoring the fact that he was obviously inebriated, Effie pressed on. "So where are we going now then?"

"Follow me." Effie hesitated, resenting the notion of the unknown destination, feeling like a hostage in a strange new place. The earlier excitement she had felt about being somewhere new had evaporated. Haymitch, however, seemed not to notice and was already several steps in front of her so that, despite his drunken state, she had to run – which was quite a feat in her studded red heels – just to catch up. The staccato rhythm of her heels hitting the drab concrete floors provided the first piece of comfort Effie had been afforded since she had arrived.

As they walked in silence, but for the steady rhythm of Effie's heels, through the grubby streets of District Twelve, Effie began to grow uncomfortable in the knowledge that she was being stared at. There was nobody on the streets, no children running about or playing in the streets like they did in the Capitol. A shutter on a window to her right slammed shut as she walked past, and she understood. In a few days, she would be drawing out the names of two children from the district and very possibly consigning them to death. To the people of District Twelve, Effie Trinket was the Grim Reaper.

Perhaps the people here did not want the glory of being chosen to represent their home in front of the whole country. But that was positively ridiculous! Who wouldn't want all of the life that came with being a part of The Hunger Games? Effie feared she would never understand the ways of these people.

They drew to a stop just outside a large house in a neighbourhood full of similar ones, starkly different to the shack-like structures that she had seen on the way from the station. Its stony front was quite intimidating in comparison to the clean, tall buildings of the Capitol.

Haymitch stumbled down the path and pulled out a key from his the pocket of his rumpled trousers. Having not been invited in, Effie assumed she was to follow and set off down the gravelly path. Unfortunately, she failed to notice the step in front of the door and caught her toe on it, sending her face first into Haymitch's back. He staggered forward a few paces from the impact and turned with obvious annoyance apparent in his rugged features.

"Watch your step, Princess," he spat. Though she did not know it at the time, that nickname was to become the bane of Effie's existence. "Wait in there." He pointed towards a room adjacent to the hallway. Indignant at being ordered around in such a way, Effie did as instructed and went through into what seemed to be a living room. At least, she thought it was a living room.

Bottles littered the floor along with the remains of broken plates and unwashed clothing, and the air was tainted with the rancid stench of alcohol mixed with sweat. Reluctantly, Effie perched on the edge of a sofa so that as little of her body as possible was in contact with the slightly sticky fabric. A fly danced dizzily through the air as the sound of telephone keys being pressed reached Effie's ears.

"Aren't you supposed to be here by now?" Haymitch seemed angry, though Effie had no idea who he was talking to. "She's here… No!... No, I will not!... Just get here, will you?" A slam as the receiver was shoved back onto its hook. Haymitch appeared in the door frame. "The Mayor should be here shortly," he said, in what Effie was sure he thought was a civilised tone.

"Oh, I can get there myself if you point me in the right direction," she smiled, rising, looking for any opportunity to get out of the filthy house.

The phone rang again.

Haymitch moved swiftly, a lion bounding towards its prey, and ripped the phone away from the wall with a single motion. The house fell silent. Effie, for the first time in her life, was truly scared of a man. Not the artificial fear that she felt at being rejected by one, by real fear that seeped into the very core of her being.

He did not say a word. The phone hit the floor with a crack that sounded far too much like the breaking of a bone and Haymitch stalked from the room. Shocked, Effie was frozen in place. What was she doing here? Why couldn't she just have been happy in her job? Why did she have to be so damn ambitious?

She swiped angrily at the tear that had worked its way down her cheek. It would take ages to sufficiently cover up the mark it left, but, for a reason that she could not yet fully comprehend, Effie did not want to hide it. Perhaps he would see how much pain his actions could cause people. Then a lesson would be learned.

Haymitch appeared a minute later with a tray in one hand and a bottle of liquor in the other. A bowl of pastries balanced sloppily atop the tray. The dainty little things looked unequivocally out of place in the wreck of a house. Again, he failed to invite her to join him, but Effie assumed that she would only be suffering such impropriety for a short while longer and followed his path into the living room once more.

Several bottles crashed to the floor as Haymitch swept them from the table to make room for the tray. He immediately took a small brown pastry and sunk into the chair. He sat for a while, alternatively taking savage bites of the food and swigging from the bottle, before he finally addressed Effie. "Not eating anything, Princess?"

There was something about the way he said the word that made Effie cringe. 'Princess'. There was none of the softness that her mother had used when she called her that as a child, none of the love. Just resentment. What had she done to offend him so soon after they met?

"You've just had your dirty hands in that bowl. I will not eat that."

"It's called finger food for a reason, Princess."

"Your manners are terrible, Mr. Abernathy," Effie remarked after she could no longer bear watching him chomp away at the pastries.

"So you've said."

* * *

The Mayor had arrived about ten agonising minutes later. Effie liked him a great deal better than Haymitch Abernathy; he, at least, was civilised enough to address her as 'Miss Trinket'. Even her name was out of place here, though.

She was in a spare bedroom of the Mayor's considerable house, which was thankfully a great deal cleaner than Haymitch's. A long blue dress was laid out upon the bed, one of the few she owned that was suited to such an occasion. It glittered lightly as the light brushed against its silky surface. Effie smiled down at it, certain that she would impress with her designs tonight. She was meeting people of an entirely different class to those she had seen earlier; the Mayor's friends, the Capitol officials assigned to the overseeing of District 12, even President Snow himself.

When she had slipped on the dress and matching blue heels, adjusted the dark wig and single silver bangle, Effie made her way down to the dining room, but paused outside of the door when she was struck by the sound of a curious voice that she could not place.

"Have you seen the new escort for 12 yet, Haymitch?"

"That clown they sent from the Capitol? Yeah, I've seen her." Effie's heart stopped.

"Come on, Haymitch, she's a sweet girl," the Mayor chided.

"She's just like the rest of them." The rest of _who_?

"Have you even spoken to her properly?"

"She's said enough."

Effie could not listen to anymore. She fixed a false smile onto her face and strode into the dining room, allowing the door to slam loudly behind her.

"Manners," Haymitch smirked. However, Effie did manage to gain a little satisfaction when his face dropped after she turned to glare at him. He shook his dark head, as if in disbelief, and turned his eyes back to the empty wine glass before him. "Can't a guy get any more drinks around here?"

"I don't think you need any more." The words were out of Effie's mouth before she could stop them. The whole table turned their heads towards her; it seemed that nobody was used to Haymitch's alcoholism being called into question. There was that strange look again, the amalgamation of too many different expressions to draw them all out.

"Take a seat, won't you, Princess?"

"I don't think I will, thank you. I'm in no mood to be ridiculed. Good evening." She swept back out of the room, but not before catching the strange manner in which President Snow was regarding her. _Fantastic_, she thought, _I've embarrassed myself in front of the President of Panem. _She would be out of a job quicker than Haymitch could find another drink.

She tore from the house, shoving the doors open in front of her and collapsed in a fit of tears on the stone steps outside. When she looked up, a little girl with two dark brown braids on either side of her head was looking at her suspiciously. Until, that was, a strong-looking man covered in some kind of dust swept her up in his arms.

"Come on now, Kat, we don't stare, do we? It's not polite." He turned to Effie, muttered a quick apology and carried his daughter off up the grimy street.

Effie Trinket was not wanted in District Twelve. And she knew it.

* * *

Anneliese Dean and Gregory Bolton. Now there were two names that Effie would never forget; the first two names she ever pulled from the reaping bowl. She had not understood the look of fear in their eyes, like an animal stuck in a trap, as they approached the podium. Where was their fighting spirit? Their willingness to fight for their homes, for glory? It was no wonder the coverage of the District Twelve reaping was always so much shorter than the rest; it was so dull! No smiles, no applause, no rousing gestures. Just silence. It's not like they were unaware of how the Games worked.

They were horribly behaved on the train, scoffing down their food at a rate that would put a starved leopard to shame. But there was one night on that train that changed Effie irrevocably.

She woke in the middle of the night in need of water and shuffled tiredly from her compartment in search of it. As she neared the bar car, Effie was stopped by a muffled sniffling sound coming from the compartment to her right. She cautiously opened the door.

Gregory was rocking on his bed, face obscured by his hands, sobbing much more audibly now.

"Gregory –"

He turned to look at her with a combination of shock and hatred.

"Gregory," she pressed on, "I know that this is difficult for you…"

"Difficult? Difficult? You don't know the half of it!" His tanned face was streaked with tears and saliva was seeping from between his lips. Effie tried her best to hold back from urging.

"I'm sure I don't, but I'm here to help you." She laid an apprehensive hand on his shoulder and was struck by the lack of strength in it despite the seventeen-year-old's apparent ruggedness.

"There's no way you can help me." He twisted away from her touch.

"I can try."

"You can't help me. I know I'm not getting out of that arena. I've never picked up a weapon in my life and I'm going up against who knows how many Careers. I'll be gone on the first day. That's not what I'm worried about. It's my little sister."

"Your sister?"

"She's seven. She's alone now. Our parents… they died not long after she was born. I've been looking after her and now… now she has nobody." He broke down into renewed floods and that was the moment that Effie knew this job was not about her anymore. She would get these children through this, if it took everything she had.

It did. She still failed.

* * *

She was distracted by the clicking of the bolt, by now familiar to her as a sign of an impending visit from an interrogator. Without thinking, Effie lowered her eyes to the floor, unwilling to show the loathsome sense of fear building up on her mind. But there was an immediate difference that she could sense. Something was new. The smell of sweat and human misery was permeated by something altogether less appealing.

Blood and roses.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I really do appreciate all of you that are reading and I'd love it if you could leave a review too :) I don't bite, I promise!_

* * *

President Snow. Effie raised her head, suddenly burning with something she could only call shame, and looked into his eyes. They were stony. That was when she knew she would not leave this room; President Snow would not personally question a suspect unless he was certain that they had done something terrible, something beyond traitorous.

Perhaps his face, the face she had grown up admiring, the face she had grown to despise in some deep part of her mind, would be the last one she would see. The thought appalled her.

"Why don't you take a seat at the table, Miss Trinket?" The way he waded into the room and offered her a seat at a table that was not even his in a manner that suggested he had owned it all his life made Effie sick. Then she realised that he did own that table. He owned the room. He owned her. The smouldering hatred in the pit of Effie's stomach rose until, as Snow took a seat himself, it became an all-consuming fire.

Slowly, she stood upright. It was only a small act of defiance, but it was something at least. The dull ache in her leg quickly transformed to an arrow of pain that shot through her whole body. She was beginning to feel queasy when the President spoke once more.

"Let us not play anymore, Miss Trinket. Tell me everything you know."

"I know a lot of things. Which ones are you talking about?" She didn't know where the words were coming from, probably the nagging feeling that she had nothing left in the world to lose, the same one that told her that her life was now limited. Each second was numbered. Snow retained a veneer of light amusement, as if Effie had just told him a joke she had heard from a friend. But his cold eyes betrayed him. They held the same look as a mutt gazing upon its prey.

"You are not unintelligent, Miss Trinket," he said blandly, straightening the cuff of his pristine white shirt sleeve. "I will ask you again to tell me what you know."

"I know that you are a cold-hearted murderer." The fire was ascending now, setting off eruptions and explosions through Effie's veins. If she was going to die here, it would not be as a grovelling prisoner. "I know that what you did to Seneca – what you force those children to do every year – is beyond evil."

"Ah, but I do not choose those children. You do that all on your own."

And that was it. He had hit upon her weakness already. She chose those names every year. She smiled about it, made light of it to the point of seeming manic and then fell apart in private. But then, she remembered, private in the Capitol is very unlikely to be private, especially for somebody related to the Games.

"You are sick. You think you can control these people by terrifying them, but look what that's achieved! They despise you and everything you stand for!"

Effie winced at the scraping of the metal chair on the tiles. He was standing before her, the repulsive odour of the blood-rose mixture heightened by the proximity of his puffy red lips to her face. Considerably shorter without her heels, Effie felt more intimidated by her physical inferiority than she should have.

Snow regarded her in that same inexplicable way that he had on her first trip to District Twelve.

"Come now, Miss Trinket," his cold hand found its way to her hair, twisting the sandy tendrils around his manicured finger. Effie involuntarily let out a whimper and loathed herself for this open display of weakness. "Play nicely."

"I told you, I don't know anything!" Her voice was strangled as she struggled to free her hair from his grasp. Her defiance was met by the heavy impact of his hand across her burning cheek. Effie held back the tears that were building in her eyes, more from the sting of the slap than the humiliation of it.

"And I told you," he hissed, "I don't believe you." He was even closer now, if that was possible.

"Get away from me," Effie spat. Her back was pressed into the cold wall, but the shiver running through her spine was the least of her troubles now. "Get back."

"It's a bit late for that."

* * *

Effie drew her knees in closer to her chest as if testing whether she could make herself disappear that way. She was beyond the point of functionality. After Snow had left the room, satisfied and red-faced, wearing the sickening smirk that would long haunt her dreams, Effie had stopped. It was her only feeble defence against the images that her mind refused to let sink.

His hands on her skirt. Squeezing her flesh. Touching her.

She stared at the tray by the door, sitting just within her reach. Since Snow had gone, she had not touched food or the water that accompanied it. If she kept it up long enough she might die of starvation or dehydration before he came back. _If _he came back, she reminded herself. Sometimes the optimistic front that she had forced upon herself in public prevailed and allowed her to make light of a situation, but at that moment she resented it. There was no light to be found here.

The latch clicked and a grey-clad interrogator slipped into the room. _I must look positively feral_, she thought, _because he's looking at me like I might attack him at any moment. _She could.

A moment later, the interrogator's clammy hand was forcing her face-first into the water bowl. There was not enough for her to drown herself, she found with growing anger. The interrogators, it seemed, knew what she was trying to do. When the interrogator pulled her back up, her face was dripping with the water that she refused to swallow. The interrogator said nothing, just straightened himself up and left nothing behind him except the slam of the door.

Perhaps they thought to degrade her further by treating her like a filthy dog. In her mind, it would be impossible. They had done everything they could. Snow had taken the last piece of what little dignity she had retained. All that was left was to kill her.

She welcomed the thought.

* * *

_The sky is orange with clouds the pastel shades of the houses back home in the Capitol._ _Effie stretches her aching joints as she opens her eyes to the unfamiliar room around her. It is white, so impossibly white that she is certain no purer shade has ever existed. The room appear to have walls, but no roof. She stares up at the marmalade-coloured skies before standing. It takes her a moment to realise that she had been sleeping in an armchair, the same armchair, in fact, that she had been forced to sit upon the first time she went into Haymitch Abernathy's house. But what was his chair doing in this strange room?_

_She crosses the room in a few steps, satisfied with the familiar clicking of her heels on the floor, feeling as light as the clouds floating above her head. Her hand on the wall, she is surprised to find its smooth surface curving away from her slightly. She does not have time to figure out what it could be before the metallic tang of blood hits her nostrils._

_It is overpowering. Gagging, she sinks to the floor only to look up and find the one face looming over her that she wished never to see again._

_Snow's fish-like lips curve into a smile the likes of which not even the devil himself has ever seen. Effie scrambles to her feet, runs to the other side of the room and hammers at the wall with her fists, praying for any form of salvation. There must be a door somewhere._

_Then it strikes her. There is no door. There will be no door. The only way out is above her head. They were not in a room at all, but a giant glass bowl. A reaping bowl, to be precise._

_A sharp clanging sound reverberates around the bowl and Effie looks down to see s small parachute at her feet. Snow is advancing at a pace that suggests he is in no hurry. She scrambles for the parachute, clutching at the metal of the tiny pod dangling from it. This is her salvation. It will get her out of here, away from Snow._

_But it does not._

_Inside, there is a single neatly-folded piece of paper. She slips it open, fearing that she knows what is inside. Her high Capitolian voice echoes around the bowl as if she were wired up to an extensive speaker system._

"_Anneliese_ _Dean_."

_As soon as the name is past her lips, the paper multiplies rapidly._

_Gregory Bolton. Maisy Whishart. Rose Lockhearst. Flux Duncain._

_Every dead tribute from every Hunger Games there has ever been appears on a piece of paper. The names are filling up the bowl. Seventy five years of misery and sacrifice are materialising around her and she is drowning. Drowning in the paper and in the guilt._

_Suddenly, the bottom of the bowl collapses, landing Effie in the middle of the familiar train to District Twelve. A girl sits at the table and Effie only needs to spot the long dark braid to realise that it is Katniss who sits at the table. Her stomach is suddenly growling from a lack of food, but as Effie moves to the table and places a welcoming hand on Katniss's shoulder, the girl evaporates completely._

"_Katniss?" Her voice is strangled. Perhaps some water would help. The bar car is tantalisingly close. A figure is slumped over the bar, but it is not Haymitch as Effie expects. Peeta lifts his head only long enough to register her face with his mist-shrouded eyes. He lifts the glass in his hand towards his lips and takes a drink. Effie gasps at what she sees._ _With every sip, he is wasting away, rotting like the wooden gallows that once stood in the old Capitol city centre. This sweet little boy is fading away before her eyes._

_With a loud crack, Effie is lying in her bed in her apartment. She flinches when she feels the presence of another body in close proximity to hers. Turning, she finds herself looking straight into Haymitch's grey eyes. What he is doing there, she cannot say, but she finds that she does not particularly care. For once, he is devoid of those intoxicating fumes that indicated his dependency on the bottles of white liquor stored in his cupboards. He smiles and reaches out towards her, but his gesture is interrupted by the slam of the door as it is flung open, almost tearing it from its hinges._

_President Snow materialises in the doorway and leers at them. _

"_Am I interrupting something?" His drawling voice makes Effie feel sick. Seized with fear, she cannot move a muscle._

_Before she can stop him, Haymitch leaps from the bed and lunges towards Snow but he is unarmed and brute force is very seldom a match for a blade. Snow wrenches the white rose from his lapel and plunges it into Haymitch's flesh. He stumbles backwards under an invisible weight as red flowers spread across his shirt, blurring together and dying the fine white cotton a deep crimson._

_The blood pours endlessly from his chest, withering his body until he is positively skeletal. And all she can do is watch._

* * *

Effie awoke, sweating and trembling. She had not had such a vivid dream in years, and even then they were usually about children from the Games. The thought of Snow hurting Haymitch made her eyes burn and her stomach churn for reasons that she had no conscious grasp of.

Suddenly, a small section of the wall receded and gave way to a blank screen. Effie scrambled across the floor towards the little rectangle of light as it flickered to life, but when the broadcast started, she stopped in her tracks. The screen showed an aerial view of the cell she sat in. For a moment, she thought that it was live, but when she turned her head the curled up creature on the screen did not. As the door on the screen cell opened, the bile rose in Effie's throat.

A large figure entered the room. It was President Snow. Like a child, Effie forced her eyes closed and clamped her hands over her ears to avoid the footage that played on the screen. It was useless. The volume only increased.

Her own screams would be ringing in her ears for a long time.

* * *

_A/N: Let's get Effie out of this place, shall we?_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I would just like to thank you all again for your positive responses to this story (despite its darkness). This chapter is quite short, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless._

* * *

_Those walls could do with a coat of paint_, she thought. _Perhaps a nice yellow like my living room_. Mundane thoughts like these were her defence mechanisms; they kept her from the darker corners of her mind, which seemed to be occupying a great deal of space more than they used to. _Oh, look! _A dried bloodstain on the shackles. She hadn't noticed that before. Her eyes fixated on the little brown fleck and she wondered how many more there would be before the end came and whether it was even hers. It's funny – isn't it? – how you can look at somebody's blood, a vital part of them, and still not know a thing about them. How old were they? Did they have a happy childhood? A family? Which District did they come from? Or were they Capitolian?

Were they dead or alive?

Effie knew what awaited her and she welcomed it. Death would save her from this place. He would be merciful and she would thank him.

The tray of food – a paltry bowl of grey mush (without a spoon) that smelled strongly of rotting fish – had remained untouched after the last Interrogator had left, but they seemed to have given up on forcing her to accept it. The notion both relieved and worried her. No Interrogators, not even a single Peacekeeper, had been into her cell for quite some time. So where were they? Or, more importantly, what were they planning?

As if the room had been reading her thoughts, the bolt clicked and Effie instinctively pushed herself against the back wall, casting her grey eyes downward.

"Effie?"

Hallucinations must be setting in from the depravation. How else could Haymitch Abernathy be standing before her? He hadn't even greeted her sarcastically or with that ubiquitous tinge of disgust. No, he had said her name – for the first time in a long while – with something akin to concern. If this was a hallucination, it was a cruel one.

"Effie," Haymitch repeated more loudly, as though she had not heard him the first time.

Effie could not find the voice to reply. She was even hoping now for this to be a distortion of reality cooked up by his disorientated mind. She did not want to be seen this way. Weak. Broken. Dependent on a man who hated her guts.

But there he was, followed by a trail of artificial light from the doorway behind. He didn't approach right away and it made her feel like a caged animal that scared off its trainer.

"I'm sorry." The words struggled from between her parched lips before her brain could assign any kind of meaning to them.

"Don't be stupid," Haymitch replied flatly and finally, but warily, walked towards her. He pulled out a small metal key from his pocket and knelt at her feet. As he reached for the shackle, Effie flinched away. He stared at her hard for a second and a shadow crossed his rugged features. What was it? Pity? Anger? Both? Effie could not tell, but it frightened her.

She struggled against the urge to move away when his hand brushed her ankle but was overcome by the sense of relief that followed her liberation from the chain. It was replaced immediately by the sense that something was wrong. How did Haymitch get in here unharmed? How did he get the key to her freedom? She would not think of it now.

She was being rescued.

* * *

Nausea rose up through Effie's body when the pain set in. She had managed to hobble halfway across the cell – a few mere metres – with the support of Haymitch's shoulder under her arm, but even that had been near unbearable. Her leg seared from the injury that still had not healed. Her arm still ached from the bruises. Her mind ached from the exhaustion. She was not going to make it out alive.

The world fell from beneath her feet as Effie's knees buckled inward and her body hit the cold tile floor with an unsettling crack.

That was it. She was gone.

Then came the ascension. But it felt as though she was being carried. This was not supposed to happen, was it? There was no guardian angel assigned to Effie Trinket, God knows she had found that out the hard way. Then she couldn't be dead and somebody must really be carrying her. Haymitch. For the moment, she did not care where he was taking her. He was here. Like a child in the arms of their mother, she shifted towards the warmth of his chest.

"It's alright now." For once, she really tried to believe his words.

* * *

The night swelled around her, a mass of cold darkness. It had been so long since she had last seen the sky, even longer since she had cared to, but to Effie it was suddenly forbidding. A light humming told her that a hovercraft was stationed nearby and she wondered whether this escape would be short-lived, whether a peacekeeper was nearby, whether they would kill Haymitch right there and take her back to the cell. Or would they be merciful and kill her too? She highly doubted it.

A moment later, there was an odd shift in the ground below her and her she was being tipped back onto her feet. Haymitch's voice crept into her ear.

"I know it hurts, but I need you to stand just for a bit so you can get a decent hold on the ladder."

"Haymitch, we can't afford to stay any longer." Funny, that sounded like Plutarch Heavensbee. What on earth was he doing here? Wasn't one person seeing this bad enough? Effie winced as she put the weight on her damaged leg and felt a jet of fire run through as payment. Her fingers closed around the cool metal.

Even though she knew she could not fall, her fingers gripped the ladder ever tighter.


	5. Chapter 5

Gasping in the fresh, clean air that she so desperately missed, Effie raised her head from the strange softness in which it lay. It took the shooting fire through her limbs to convince her that the dark, neglected part of her brain hadn't dreamt the duration of her captivity in some kind of depraved nightmare. Of course, Effie Trinket was not that lucky. She never had been.

The little light that streamed through a gap between the heavy tapestry-like curtains was enough to illuminate Effie's surroundings without the searing pain that resulted in her eyes trying to readjust to the brightness. The room was lavish, even by her standards. Encompassed by dark wooden panels and heavy brocade fabrics, she felt somewhat insignificant in her plain – what even was it? – hospital-style gown. Heaven knew where that came from. Its stark whiteness provided an unpleasant contrast to the rich golds and reds around her. It struck her like glitter-spattered blood against pale cotton skin.

She started visibly as she passed a shadow of a woman, limping slightly, advancing on the door; she did not even recognise herself. This matted blonde hair and too-thin face did not belong on the immaculately shining surface of the mirror. After only a few seconds, Effie could stand to look at it no more; sickened, she dragged, with a great deal of effort, the crimson bedsheets to the other side of the room so that she would not have to look upon the reflection – or indeed reflect – anymore.

Surprisingly out of breath, Effie bent, hands on her knees, to try to reclaim some vital air.

A sudden creak, announcing the appearance of a visitor in the bedroom, startled her once more (_pull yourself together_!). Effie struggled against the urge to hide or shriek. Haymitch entered the room with a surprisingly light step and spoke in an even lighter voice.

"How are you?" The question seemed of little importance compared to the splendour of seeing his face again. No, not splendour. She hated him. _Relief_, perhaps, is a more appropriate word. Relief to know that she was not, in fact, dreaming: he would be the last person to appear in one of her night-time flights of fancy.

"First of all, _where _am I?" His face darkened – maddeningly mysteriously – at her question.

"You blacked out when we got you into the hovercraft so I brought you up here."

"Yes, but where is 'here', Haymitch?" Effie winced at the sound of her voice: a thin scratching like sandpaper on her windpipe. Haymitch, apparently hearing this, produced a glass of water from a tray on a small oak table in the far corner of the bedroom.

"A bedroom." Effie could not help but smile over her glass at the ridiculous grin on his face. However, a niggling voice in the back of her mind told her that something was wrong; the Haymitch she knew would never have joked with her in such a way. Taunted, perhaps, laughed _at_, certainly, but never joked with her.

"Don't play stupid with me, Haymitch," she retorted, hoping that, after all the time they had known each other, the warning tone in her voice would be enough to explain her mounting anxiety to him.

"Who said I was playing?" His positivity was starting to become worrying now.

"It's a little luxurious for District Thirteen, isn't it? I thought it was supposed to be a horribly strict underground society or something. Tip-top secret, and all that?" Finally, Haymitch's smile vanished and Effie wished that she had just enjoyed it rather than ruining it with suspicion.

"This isn't Thirteen, Effie," he replied in a sombre tone. "It's not safe there anymore; things have gone too far."

"Things?"

"The rebellion." He did not want to say any more on the subject; she could not possibly be clueless enough to be completely oblivious to it. But, then again, the Capitol was undoubtedly adept at keeping its citizens in the dark. He would not be like them. He took a deep breath and prepared to tell her the truth. "We're in Snow's mansion. I tried to – Eff… what are you doing?"

At the mention of the name, Effie's eyes widened and her breathing quickened to a rate which her body seemed unable to uphold. Her fingers clutched painfully at Haymitch's arm, her nails piercing the flesh like jagged metal. Haymitch struggled to keep a hold on her as she attempted to bring her breathing under control. If she had been in any normal frame of mind, Effie would have disapproved deeply of the manner in which Haymitch was rubbing her back to try to stop the violent shaking of her slight body.

"Hey, calm down." His words had little effect. "He can't hurt you here; he's been detained by the leaders from Thirteen. Effie, he can't get to you, I promise." She looked up at him, eyes wide as an expectant child's. He was wrong. He did not have to be physically present to get to her.

"You don't know that," Effie whimpered.

"We thought we'd lost you before and I'm not going through that again." Her silence spurred him into continuing. "Nobody knew what had happened to you. I thought you were dead until that video…"

"What video?"


End file.
